


That DC Heat

by LittleMousling, moogle62



Series: CM Chatfic [14]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Desperation, Devotion, Dirty Talk, Fucking, Knotting, Love, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, dc era, really just extremely filthy talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 18:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18451727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Working at the White House is a privilege and an honor. But when Jon goes into heat, Tommy only cares about one thing.





	That DC Heat

Tommy's coming out of the SCIF when he hears a phone buzzing. It turns out to be his, moving itself around in its cubby. It's blowing up with texts from Jon.

_you gotta come get me_  
_911_  
_where are you????????_  
_please don't be in the sitroom_

Even as he's hitting reply, another message comes through:

_are you getting these??_  
_tom I need you_

Tommy fumbles his silent work phone into his pocket and starts walking and typing into his personal, dodging fellow staffers. _omw. where r u?_

_my office_  
_hurry pls_

Tommy picks up his pace. One of the skills you acquire almost by osmosis here is the ability to walk fast in a way that looks busy but not panicked, regardless of anything you might actually be feeling. It's coming in handy now as he hurries through the corridors, turning into the speechwriting pen.

It’s obvious before he gets to Jon’s office what the issue is. The scent isn’t strong yet; Tommy doesn’t think most people would notice. But Tommy would know Jon’s heat scent even if it were in among much stronger and more varied smells than the workday White House has to offer. 

He leans into Cody and Lovett’s office first. "Tell Dan or somebody that I’m taking Jon home. He’ll be out a few days." The usual euphemism; the usual nods of recognition.

He doesn't wait to see if either of them have anything to add, though by the quick expression that flits over Lovett's face he should expect a text or seven later, and heads over to Jon's office. He knocks and goes in without waiting for an answer, only opening the door wide enough to dart through before pushing it shut. It's dark in here and the scent is stronger suddenly, concentrated.

Jon’s in his desk chair, arm over his face, stripped down to the thin t-shirt he’d been wearing under his dress shirt. He’s still wearing his slacks; he’s probably broiling. He almost falls off the chair, trying to straighten up and get to Tommy when the door opens. Tommy steps across the office and takes some of Jon’s weight, centering him where he’s now standing. "Hey," Tommy says, soft. "Let’s get you home, okay? Security can call us a cab. Can you put your coat on, just until we get home?"

Jon presses his face against Tommy's neck, nodding; Tommy can feel how hot his skin is already, even though it can't have been long since this came on.

"Sorry," Jon mutters, and Tommy just holds him a little tighter. He wants to kiss him, but he can't. He won't do that to Jon, won't give him what he needs and take it away again until they're home.

"You’re okay. I got you." Tommy’s been running through the practicalities as he rushed here: who he needs to contact about his own work, about Jon’s, about press contacts. Now, though, his own brain is starting to cloud. He shifts Jon to one side and fumbles for Jon’s desk phone, dials security. "Hi, it’s Tommy Vietor. I need a cab at the gates in, uh, as soon as you think we can get one."

His boss, after: "I need a few days. Can you tell David to check my email and follow up with the Post about their troop status inquiry? I don’t want that one left hanging. Can someone turn on my out-of-office? Thanks. Yeah, I’ll, uh, I’ll get in touch as soon as I can."

Jon's still holding onto him, like he can't bear to let Tommy go for that long. Tommy's got an arm around his waist, helping him stay up, and he squeezes him reassuringly as he puts the phone down. "Let's get you into your coat, okay? Just for a little bit. You're doing so well."

He can _smell_ Jon reacting to that.

He’s got to keep his own head, for Jon’s sake. Focusing on that protective instinct helps; they’re about to be around other people, and it’s Tommy’s job to keep Jon safe. He tamps down everything but that, and then grabs Jon’s coat and starts helping Jon into it. His own coat is downstairs somewhere, with his keys and his lunch. It makes more sense to go to Jon’s place anyway. "Okay. Out we go. I’ll get us out of here."

Jon nods again, and pulls slightly away from Tommy, standing on his own. "Thanks," he says, his voice kind of rough. He clears his throat. "Okay. Yeah."

"We'll be in the cab so soon," Tommy tells him. "Just stay with me, okay? That's all you've got to do."

Jon is biting his lower lip hard enough to leave a white indent in the centre.

Tommy makes himself look away, opens the door, and starts hustling Jon past the stares and sniffs of their coworkers.

It’s easier in the cab. The beta driver isn’t setting off alarms for either of them, and hopefully they aren’t bothering him much, either. Jon sags against Tommy, says, "Whatever Lovett says, it wasn’t because of the meeting in the Oval."

"What would Lovett say?" Tommy asks, before his brain kicks in. They had a meeting that morning to go over notes for the speech Jon was working on and Jon had had to get up early that morning, taking them both into work at about the same time for once. They'd taken the subway together, Jon with his hat still pulled down over his close-shaven head. "Why would it be—" it clicks. He manages to keep a straight face through sheer effort, doesn't start smirking. "Oh."

"It wasn’t—it’s a coincidence," Jon says. He’s almost coherent, just now, except when he says, "He wasn’t even that close behind me—"

God. Tommy can picture that, the president leaning over Jon to point at a line on a speech, not thinking anything of the casual way their skin might have brushed. And Jon, thinking of nothing else, embarrassed and wanting, kicking himself into early heat.

The president must have smelled it too, Tommy realises; there's no way to hide it. Maybe it began right there in the Oval, and Jon had fought it back until he could get to his office, shed his shirt and turn off the lights, needy and reaching out for Tommy.

Tommy has to clear his throat. "We're nearly home," he says, without even looking, hoping, more than anything. He's trying to keep himself in check to get them both back safely, god, but Jon smells so—he needs so _much_ from Tommy, and Tommy could give it to him right here, could cup his cock through his slacks and have Jon suck the fingers of his other hand, squirming and loving it and wanting more.

Jon sucks in a breath, and then scents the air, face drifting towards Tommy's neck. Tommy knows he's starting to give off his own scent; there's no mind-over-matter way he'll avoid that with Jon this close to him, this needy. They really are almost there, but Tommy wills the traffic to part for them, the cab to speed up. Jon needs it so much, and Tommy needs, more with every passing second, to give it to him.

"I—" Jon says, a little hiccup of a word, and reaches out across the backseat for Tommy's hand. Tommy holds on, hard. Both their palms are sweaty. They have to—they have to get to Jon's, they have to be out of this cab, they _have_ to—

The cab pulls to a stop in front of Jon's building and Tommy blindly thrusts cash at the driver without counting it, ushering Jon out of the car. He manages to call back a thank you, and then he can only focus on Jon, on escorting him off the street and into the building, on trying not to, to, prowl a goddamn perimeter around him while they wait for the elevator to arrive.

The elevator is the worst thing yet. Best thing yet. They're so close that his control is fracturing, and Jon's has been gone for six blocks. Jon's unsubtly grinding against him, sideways like he thinks it's not incredibly obvious. Tommy hopes the resolution on the security camera is terrible, or that whoever watches the feed is distracted. It's taking all of Tommy's effort not to grind right back. "We just gotta get inside," he says. "Just get inside and then—" He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. The elevator doors open, and Tommy all but drags Jon into the hallway.

He has to dig Jon's keys out of his pocket, which makes Jon hiss at the slide of his hand, and then he's got the keys in the lock, and the door is opening, thank _god_ , and they're pushing inside, and Jon is shoving up against him while the door is still open, holding onto to Tommy hard with desperate, needy hands, grinding for friction on the side of Tommy's leg, his thigh, the lower curve of his ass.

Tommy wants to move them but he can smell and feel how much Jon needs this, just exactly this, so instead he rolls their bodies back against the door, slamming it shut and pressing Jon up against it. Jon whines, gorgeous in Tommy's ear, and Tommy knows instantly that Jon's going to come just like this, just from this friction and pressure and the build-up of need.

He can finally kiss Jon, and he does, holding him tight against the door by the hips. Jon's barely kissing back, panting against his mouth, rutting up against Tommy, and Tommy feels dizzy with it, with being able to let himself finally _think_ about it, to say, "I've got you, come on, you can," and to feel Jon jerk and come, in his slacks, whining and clutching at Tommy.

There's a brief window, right after Jon's come, when he goes lax enough that Tommy can relocate them to Jon's big bed, can peel Jon out of his clothes. Jon's so gorgeous in heat; he's sweat-sheened, shifting on the bed, eyes begging Tommy to come back while Tommy gets his own shirt and undershirt and belt and too many fucking endless layers off and into wrinkling piles in the corner.

Tommy's so hard it hurts. He can smell Jon now without any barriers at all, and it makes him climb back onto the bed and run his nose up the inside of Jon's thigh, sniffing him out, pushing his legs wide. "God. God, you're so—" There aren't words for it, really.

 _Wet_ , would be one of them, come sticky on his dick, in the hair above it; slick on his inner thighs from where he's been waiting, and needing. Tommy licks at it on his way up, tastes how much Jon needs him.

He'll come back and linger, later, but right now they both need him to focus on filling Jon up. It's all Tommy can think about as he kisses up Jon's damp belly to the warm, scented base of his throat and then his lush mouth.

Jon's already wrapping his thighs around Tommy's hips, and Tommy's upward movement drags his cock against Jon's wet hole. They both groan. "Yeah, you—you need it, huh, babe?" Tommy whispers, and Jon rocks up against him.

"I do," Jon gasps, rocking his hips again. He's so wet against Tommy, eager, like his body just wants to pull Tommy in and keep him there. "I need it, I need—please—"

"Tell me," Tommy says, not trying to torture them both, just wanting to be sure. Sometimes Jon just wants to be knotted, slow and simple, the both of them curled around each other. Sometimes he wants something rather more athletic. 

"Need—need you to fuck me," and Tommy has a moment to think, _well, that part I had already assumed_ , before Jon adds, "Hard, I need—hard and—don’t stop, please—"

Tommy kisses him again, rocking against him. "I've got you, I'll give it to you," he tells Jon, grinding down hard, and Jon whines again, tips his head to the side."I'm ready, please, just—put it—fuck—"

Jon's rocking his hips up like he's trying to find the head of Tommy's cock with his hole instead of the other way around, like he's so desperate for it that he can't wait for Tommy to get a hand between them and—ah, fuck—slide right in, smooth and easy, both of them gasping for air. "That's so—Tom—"

Tommy has to drop his head and grit his teeth against how good it feels, Jon clenching tight around him over and over. Jon needs Tommy to hold on, to fuck him hard and long, and all of Tommy down to a biological level wants to give him what he needs.

He gets his knees planted, wide for balance. He wants Jon spread wide, too, thighs up and back so all he can do is take what Tommy wants to give him. "Hard?" he checks, and Jon whimpers, digs his nails into the flesh of Tommy’s back. He makes some kind of extra noise, not a word but definitely an affirmative. 

Tommy snaps his hips once, shoving in, and Jon whines in response. "Yes—!"

"Bring your legs up," Tommy tells him, "open up for me, baby," and Jon makes that gorgeous noise again, and pulls his legs up, wider. Tommy snaps his hips again and feels Jon get wetter around him, sudden and desperate.

"God," Jon gasps, hoarse-voiced. "Y-yes, again, please—"

Tommy can do that. Jon’s hot and clinging around Tommy’s cock and all Tommy can focus on is the need to fuck into him, to fill him up. He shoves in harder, getting into rhythm now, already fast enough that the bed is moving on its frame.

Jon is whimpering, breath knocking out of him with every thrust. He reaches above his head and grabs the bed frame, wrapping his long fingers around the slats. It's—he's _so_ hot, always, but in heat it's something else.

He’s stretched out, head thrown back to bare his throat, and Tommy wants to lick right up the length of it. He wants to kiss all the salt off Jon’s gleaming chest and massage the thick muscles of his thighs and mostly, most of all, he wants to stare at Jon’s gorgeous face and fuck him harder.

He wants to watch Jon's face screw up in the agony of getting nailed just right, the pleasure so good it's almost painful, too big, too perfect. He wants to make Jon come, and come again, around his cock, wants to fuck Jon until the bed is shaking and Jon is getting exactly what he needs.

"Is this—" He pauses, getting Jon’s leg up higher "—what you need? What you wanted?"

It sounds almost growled, in his own ears, and Jon digs his nails in harder on Tommy’s skin. "Yes! Yes, it—just what I— _yes_ —"

He's squeezing down around Tommy like he can't get enough, and curls his leg over Tommy's hip, tugging him in. All of Tommy wants to _take_ him, fuck him just like this, hard and harder, giving it to him, showing Jon he can, that he's _Jon's_.

Jon's groans are getting quicker, lower; he's close again, Tommy's pretty sure. He comes so much in heat, both in frequency and volume. Jesus.

"Come for me," he urges Jon. "Just like this, just—just from me fucking you like this."

Jon has no purchase to move with him, but he slides a hand down to Tommy's ass, tugging him in harder. It feels like the only _yes_ Jon can manage right now, non-verbal but crystal clear.

This is what Jon was thinking about the whole day, the whole time he was shut away and waiting for Tommy. This: Tommy fucking him as hard as he can, not holding back, the headboard hitting the wall, both of them sweat-slick and gasping, their bodies striving together. 

Jon moves so fucking beautifully under him, trying to keep rhythm despite how close he is, how tight he's getting, and Tommy says, "That's right, you need it, you can have it," and Jon's dick twitches, come spurting out between them as Jon groans, loud, and keeps urging Tommy on, hand still tight on his ass.

Jon might come again, but Tommy's not going to focus on that; Jon's going to come plenty in the next few days. He just focuses on what they both need more than anything else, the shove and slam of fucking him, the strain he's feeling in his hips. Jon's momentarily limp under him, now, and Tommy's not sure he could fuck harder than this but he tries anyway, his whole focus on the quavering squeal of the bedframe, the heat of Jon's body, the splash of come on Jon's belly.

Jon's whole body is clenching up, all his muscles driving them on. Tommy wants—they've got so long, there's so many things they can do in the next few hours and days. Tommy's gonna turn them over later, slap the flank of Jon's thigh and have him on all fours, have Jon fist his cock while Tommy grips his hips and fucks him, just keeps driving into him, just keeps—

Tommy gasps, giving in to the desperate need to come. He hears, distantly, Jon saying, "Oh, fuck, Tommy, yeah, that's—please, sweetheart, I love you, please—fill me up—" and he wants to respond, even with a look, but he's too caught up in the shaking, unsteadying surge of release.

He comes back to earth, though, and kisses the nearest part of Jon's skin as soon as he has moderate control over his muscles again. His thighs are still shivering from time to time as he gently pulls out of Jon, but it feels good. It feels earned. "You okay?" he asks Jon.

Jon nods, and reaches up to tug Tommy down on top of him. They stick together, damp with sweat and come, but Tommy doesn't care. He lets Jon bury his face in the crook of Tommy's neck, lets Jon wrap around him, breathe him in. His own heart is still pounding. Jon smells so fucking _good_ , taken and Tommy's, a thrum of arousal building slowly up again.

Jon’s ahead of him; he’s already squirming a little, ready for more. "You should knot me next time," Jon says. "Maybe not next time. Maybe the time after."

Any other time, Tommy would be groaning and calling uncle. In the thrall of Jon’s heat, the idea races through him. Tommy kisses Jon’s skin again, lingering. "Whatever you want, Jon. I’m all yours."

After two more rounds, Jon begs until Tommy knots him, and they fuck again after, Tommy's fingers pressing inside Jon while he takes Jon's dick in his mouth, sucks at the head until Jon sobs and bucks and comes.

A few rounds after that, they manage some sleep, pressed close together under a thin sheet. They order food in, with instructions to ring the bell and leave it in the hallway, and manage to eat a little on day two.

It takes them a while to get through a meal, Jon holding back until he can't, until Tommy can't bear how desperate he smells and just pushes him back on the bed and gives it to him, opens Jon's thighs and puts his mouth on Jon's hole instead. They finish eating in a bath, later, Jon loose and lax, lying against Tommy's chest. Tommy jerks him off after, lets Jon relax into it.

By the morning of the third day, Tommy can tell Jon's heat is close to breaking. It's always bittersweet, this part, when Tommy's starting to have enough of his brain back to miss normal life, but also enough to remember how much he'll miss this when it's over. These little blocks of time for just them, when nothing feels off the table between them.

He always tries to stretch it out a little at the end, and Jon lets him.

They manage some sleep curled around each other, still naked, Jon still radiating warmth. He's barely shorter than Tommy but spooning him like this makes Tommy feel protective even when Jon isn't in heat, even when Tommy's brain is firing on all cylinders.

Tommy wakes up to the predictable feeling of Jon rubbing back against him. It's not as desperate now; Jon can wait, at least a little while. But Tommy wants to give him what he needs, and it's so easy, after two days, to just push gently into him. Jon sighs, pleased; he sounds a little like he could drop back to sleep now.

Tommy wants a little more out of Jon than that. He flattens a hand over Jon's chest, feeling Jon's heartbeat—still faster than normal, but much slower than it was yesterday. His thumb brushes Jon's nipple, not on purpose, but now that he's there, Tommy repeats the move, wanting to feel Jon squirming against him.

"Tom," Jon says, his voice still thick with sleep, and, _yes_ , that's what Tommy wants. For Jon to sound like that, move like that against him, warm and pliant.

Tommy’s going to let him do the work, insofar as this is anything more than—than spooning with penetration, really, almost still except for Tommy’s hand moving up to cup Jon’s throat, down to gently stroke his cock.

Jon sighs out when Tommy strokes him, melting back against him. He rocks his hips, just slightly, and Tommy stays still, letting Jon move on him as little as he wants.

Tommy's eyes are still shut, and it focuses him down on the feel of Jon all along his body, the closeness of him. He doesn't need to knot Jon to keep him right here, not this late in the heat; neither of them is racing to come. Neither of them is going anywhere for a while.

The bed is warm and smells warm too, like sex and sweat, and Tommy kisses the back of Jon's neck gently, listens to Jon's breath catch.

There’s a moment where Jon’s body tenses, like he’s thinking about asking for more—faster, or harder, or to be knotted, or for Tommy to whisper filthy ideas in his ears. Then he relaxes again, into the soft stroke of Tommy’s hand, the slow rhythm of his own hips.

It's easy for Tommy to close his eyes and just breathe in, being there. Jon's body is warm and Tommy is giving him what he needs, the two of them tangled in the sheets in the morning light.

Tommy loses track of time. He doesn't think he falls back asleep, but maybe—mostly, though, he just floats on the simplicity of it, the feel of Jon slowly moving on him, and Jon's heated skin under his hand. It's restful until it isn't, until some extra movement or just the buildup tips them both into needing a little more.

"Tom," Jon pants, and he's twisting round to try and catch Tommy's mouth in a kiss. He hasn't picked up the pace yet, just keeps rocking his hips, stringing this out for the both of them.

Tommy curls, too, until he can more or less kiss Jon. That ratchets it up more, and he moves his own hips, once, pushing a little harder into Jon. It's still barely a movement, but it's more, and it feels exactly right. "Yeah. I've got you. Just like this, yeah? Just a little more. Slow and—ah—steady. You want that?"

Jon groans, which seems like answer enough. He's starting to sweat across the skin of his back, between his shoulder blades, and Tommy leans down to mouth at the salt of it. They're going to need so much fucking Gatorade later, he thinks idly, and then Jon squeezes down on him and he stops thinking about anything but this.

"It's so—" Jon pants again, "you're so—yeah, like this, like that. _God_ ," and they're building the rhythm together, working together for it. Jon must be sore, Tommy thinks, and it gets him even hotter.

"Can you feel—" He stops for a second and makes sure Jon can feel it, a change of angle, back bowed. "Can you feel how I've been fucking you, over and over?"

" _Fuck_ ," Jon groans, and Tommy feels him lose the rhythm for a second, feels his hips stutter. "Y-yeah, Tom." Jon stutters too, sometimes, when he's tired or overwhelmed, and god help Tommy but it's hot when he fucks Jon to that point, to where his body overrides his coherency.

"Been—filling you up. Been fucking you so good, haven't—haven't I?" Tommy's still holding himself at slow and steady, still wants it just like this. He can do slow, and loving, and also some filthy words in Jon's ear. He can do anything, is what it feels like right now. Anything in the whole wide world, as long as it's for Jon.

"Yeah," and Jon rolls his hips, twisting again for a kiss. It's barely a kiss, given the angle, more of their mouths sliding against each other, but it's what they both need. Like this, Tommy feels like he can never get close enough to Jon, like even plastered along his back, buried inside him, there's closer he could be, more he could give.

"Yeah, I—I gave it to you good," Tommy murmurs, half into Jon's mouth. "Fucked the heat right out of you." He can almost feel it, the reality of it: that this is their last fuck of Jon's heat, that Tommy's gotten him through it.

Jon nods, pressing back against him. "Took such good care of me," he says, quietly. "So good to me."

Tommy breaks rhythm without meaning to, hips jolting: the last of the heat pheromones gripping him. _Good_ to Jon. Giving him what he needs.

"You took it so well," he tells Jon, and closes his hand back around Jon's dick, starting to stroke him again. "So well, baby."

Jon whines, and Tommy needs to make him come as much as he needs air. "You're built for this, aren't you? Built to take my cock. You're so—you're so fucking amazing, you're incredible, you're so fucking good. Are you gonna come for me? Let me feel it?"

"Gonna," Jon says, voice tight, everything tight. "Gonna, are you, make me, please, make me."

"Yeah, I'll—" Tommy strokes him tighter, slow but the way Jon likes it, firm and steady. "I'll make you come for me. Come all over yourself for me. Come on my cock—"

Jon shoves back against Tommy, desperate now, and Tommy pushes back, making sure Jon has what he needs. "That's it, baby, come for me. Right now, I want you to, right now."

" _Oh_ god," Jon pants, trembling, and does, gives it up, coming in shivering spurts over Tommy's hand as Tommy keeps stroking him through it, stays as deep inside him as he can get, giving Jon everything he needs. "Y-y-yeah, god, oh my god."

"You're so perfect, you're so good," Tommy finds himself murmuring, over and over, fading into nonsense words as he pushes up into Jon, rolls them enough that he can put a knee into the mattress and get a real rhythm going. "So—beautiful—yeah—"

He feels it crest and then just hang, like maybe there's some version of this where he could just be about-to-come forever, just like this, with Jon limp and easy under him, with their scent thick in the room. It isn't this version, though; Tommy grunts and shoves in and tumbles down the other side, filling Jon one more time.

Jon groans like he's the one coming, pushing back for it, as Tommy rides it out, gasping. He has to drop down to his elbows when he's done, before he even pulls out, and he must be squashing Jon at least slightly but Jon doesn't seem to mind.

They breathe in sync for long moments, Tommy settling down more fully. He wants to say something, but it’s too much effort, and Jon knows, anyway. Jon knows he’s amazing, and wonderful, and that Tommy fucking loves him.

The silence is broken, eventually, by Jon's stomach rumbling and Jon laughing, embarrassed, into the pillow. "Uh," he says, "I think you wore me out."

" _I_ wore _you_ out?" Tommy mumbles, and manages to roll off of him. It’s 11:30, according to the clock—AM, according to the window—and so they at least have the rest of today to recuperate. No way is Tommy going into work today, when all of his muscles are suddenly aching without the soft, fuzzy filter of distracting horniness.

Jon seems to feel the same, if the way he stretches and groans is any indication. "Do you think we could get burgers for breakfast?" he asks. "That seems fine, right?" He pauses, makes a face; Tommy doesn't have to look to know that his come is starting to slip out of Jon again, slow and _his_.

The possessive flare takes longer to dissipate than the desperate need to fuck.

"We can order burgers." Internally, Tommy adds, _And I'll go to the door and get them and if the delivery person so much as catches a glimpse of you, I'll—_ He stops himself and takes a couple deep breaths. "Okay?"

"Sure," Jon says, rolling over and stretching out, cat-lazy now. "Sounds good." He twists, feeling out his own sore places if Tommy's any judge, and then says, "Thanks, by the way. For—you're so good to me, and everything."

Tommy feels his whole body react, a gut-deep wave of hot pride. "You're—you're so good to me, Jon," he manages, over the surge of emotion. He kisses the nearest bit of Jon's skin he can reach—the curve of his shoulder, bare and gorgeous. "Love you."

"Love you too," Jon says. He shifts in Tommy’s arms, contented. "So ... about those burgers ..."

Tommy laughs and bites down. It’s still the morning, barely, and they’ve got the whole day, just for them. "Alright, alright. Anything you want."


End file.
